The Note in the Organ Pipe
by Floppy Katana
Summary: John has no idea why Sherlock insisted that they both go to investigate the organ room in St. Paul's Cathedral. What he doesn't know is that a dangerous plot is afoot, one that will bring him and Sherlock face-to-face with a syndicate of assassins called the Narejin.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, FanFiction readers! This story will be a three-parter, updated weekly. I hope you like it! Please review!**

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Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were a strange pair indeed, standing by the side of the road with their hands waving desperately for a taxi. A battering rain plunged down upon them, soaking through Sherlock's heavy coat. Poor John was far worse off; his light coat was completely sodden.

"Oh, I don't believe it!" Sherlock complained. "This is urgent!"

Soon, a cab rolled to a stop in front of them. They slipped off the curb into the puddles lining the side of the road, their shoes quickly filling up with freezing water. They tumbled into the car, sighing in relief. They had been standing for minutes in the deluge.

"Where to?" a gruff voice came from the front seat.

"St. Paul's Cathedral," Sherlock said. Distractedly, he scrutinized the cabbie through the mirror. He committed the man's face to memory.

"What are you doing?" John asked curiously, though he didn't expect for Sherlock to answer.

"Just making sure," Sherlock said, shaking some rain from his coat. Though John was slightly upset Sherlock hadn't elaborated, he felt he was making some significant progress in understanding the ways of the secretive man. Now that he thought about it, John assumed that he probably knew Sherlock better than anyone else had ever known him. He shook the thought off, busying himself with more important matters.

"And… what exactly are we going to do at the cathedral?" John queried.

Sherlock sighed into his scarf. "So many questions, John," Sherlock mused. He stared out the cab window at the bustling sidewalks. He took in everything he saw and analyzed it in a split second, sorting and packaging new data into his vast mental library. Like an eagle, he examined every person walking by.

In twenty minutes, they climbed out of the cab into the rainstorm again. Holding their coats to themselves, Sherlock and John ran through the grounds. An intimidating wall of pillars faced them. In between the central columns, an open door was visible.

John hurried in the direction of the front door. A second later, he heard a snapping comment from Sherlock. "C'mon, you dimwit. We can't well go through that entrance!" he said. "There are loads of security cameras."

Dubious, John fell into step behind Sherlock. He peered up to the tall building but was unable to spot any cameras. John shook his head; there was no way he could achieve Sherlock's level of perception.

Sherlock strode purposefully to the side of the building. The finely-cut stone was flat as the edge of a knife. Sherlock hurried over to it, the bouncing of his gait proving that he was excited. John stood back a few feet, watching Sherlock do his magic.

The detective dove a wet hand into his deep pocket and brought out a silver spoon. He tapped it on the wall repeatedly, listening intently for shallow sounds.

"A-ha!" the detective cried after a few minutes' work. He crouched down and levered open a small trapdoor, perfectly disguised against the rest of the stone. Sherlock climbed into the small tunnel head first. Once Sherlock was a few feet down the passageway, John climbed in and pulled the trapdoor shut behind him.

It was extremely silent inside the tunnel. Even the sounds of their knees and hands on the ground seemed to be eerily muffled. The darkness, like the silence, was like a dense fog, wreathing around their heads and suffocating them.

Nonetheless, the duo continued crawling for minutes down the passage. Finally, Sherlock saw a hint of light ahead.

"Almost there," he grunted to John.

A sheet of translucent wallpaper covered the source of the light. The sound of muffled voices and footsteps came from the other side of the thin membrane. Soon, the voices quieted down and a distant door slammed. Then, the lights came off, casting the friends into darkness yet again.

A tremor of fear ran through John's body like a drop of water falling into a still pool. Reminding himself to be fearless, John steadied himself by taking deep breaths. Ahead of him, Sherlock took out his small knife and cut open the membrane of wallpaper neatly. When three sides had been cut, Sherlock shimmied out of the passage and stood up. John mirrored his action and smoothed his wet coat absently, looking around.

"Mind telling me where we are?" John asked, straining to see in the darkness.

"The organ room," Sherlock responded. He produced a small flashlight from his coat and said, "mind holding this for me?"

When John clicked the button of the torch, the small room flooded into color. Rows upon rows of metal pipes extended the length of the room. The pipes protruded from the floor perpendicularly, like stalagmites. Long-handled bottle brushes lay dust-covered on the floor in rough approximations of piles.

Sherlock closed his eagle-like eyes and focused on the note he had received earlier that day. It came to him effortlessly, like a photo being drawn from a giant album.

 _VIP - Organ - Smallest pipe_

 _AB_

"Over here," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. John made his way over, shining the light on the reflective metal organ pipes.

Sherlock crouched down to look for the smallest pipe. He located it easily. A small scroll was stuffed inside the pipe. Sherlock managed to wedge it out. John peered over Sherlock's shoulder to read the hastily-scrawled note.

 _Mr. Holmes,_

 _Something terrible is going to happen here tomorrow. I don't know much. There've been rumors that there will be an attack. Mass is at 8:30. Please save us._

 _From Archbishop Bainfield_

John exchanged a look with Sherlock.

"Well, that's helpful…," John muttered sarcastically.

"No, John, don't you see?" Sherlock explained. "This note tells us all we need to know."

John shook his head slightly. John had no doubt that the detective had gleaned much more information than he had from the short note. He bowed his head in preparation for the explanation he knew was coming.

"First, we know the time and place where this alleged attack might occur," Sherlock elaborated. "Also, we know that the archbishop is scared. And that, in and of itself, is proof that we're looking at one or more shooters."

John looked at him hesitantly.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded his head side to side.

"Then tell me… What would a religious leader be most frightened of?" Sherlock asked. Giving John no time to respond, he answered his own question. "Losing followers. If there's a massacre, people get scared. If people get scared, they stop coming to church. Someone has something against the church…

"Who are the enemies of religion?" He muttered, his mind working overtime. "Of course," he breathed, after a moment's thinking. "Of course, of course, of course! The Narejin!"

John breathed in with an air of surprise. As always, he was amazed at his companion's powers of deduction. He did have one question, however.

"Er, Sherlock, who exactly are the Narejin?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Er, Sherlock, who exactly are the Narejin?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed boredly.

"The Narejin are a secretive group of assassins focused on annihilating influential religious leaders." Sherlock responded smartly, dusting off his hands. "It's the Narejin belief that religion is the source of society's issues. Come, let's go to the main chapel. That's where the archbishop will be performing his sermon."

Sherlock opened the door and led the way down a wide passage to the entrance to the main chapel. John was clueless as to how Sherlock seemed to know the foreign building like the back of his hand. There were many things he didn't know about the secretive man.

Soon, they emerged in a giant open hall. The white and black tiles were mesmerizing in their configuration, as it looked like a gigantic chessboard. The organ's tall pipes stood solemnly on the wall and the tiled floor was lined with meticulously-placed pews.

Sherlock looked around the room, taking in every small detail the room possessed. Tall, broad pillars supported the high, arched roof. The detective noted a rise in the floor where an altar stood prominently. His ears twitched in the darkness.

"Night watchman," Sherlock told John. "Put the torch out."

John hurriedly complied. A loud click rang throughout the hall. They jogged up to the raised platform.

"Under here," Sherlock whispered, gesturing to the altar, which had a storage space beneath it. John and Sherlock dove under the white cloth just as the first beams of light from the watchman's flashlight rounded a corner.

The atmosphere was tense; John barely dared to breathe for fear of alerting the sentry to their position. They could hear the stalking steps of the watchman as he prowled in their direction. John calmed down as the sentry's footsteps receded and the light went dim.

John looked over to Sherlock, whose eyes were closed. His knuckles were pressed hard to his forehead and he was muttering harshly to himself. If John didn't know Sherlock as well as he did, he might've thought that Sherlock was paralyzed with fear. However, John knew from past observation that the man was thinking.

"No… he isn't planning to escape," Sherlock muttered. "He'll simply turn himself over once he's shot the archbishop. Then he'll claim allegiance to the Narejin and be sentenced to life in prison… One question remains: where will he be?"

"Maybe the bloke will be in the rafters," John interrupted, trying to be of some help.

An angry glare was Sherlock's response. After ensuring John wouldn't interrupt his thinking further, he returned to his mumbling. Suddenly, his eyes shot open. "I know where he will be."

"Where?" John asked.

"Right here," Sherlock said, tapping the black tile with a fingernail. As he touched it, he heard a hollow sound. His brow furrowed and he grabbed his spoon to check. His face cleared in understanding.

"Torch," he murmured to John. John passed the mastermind the flashlight wordlessly.

The light clicked on and Sherlock smiled excitedly. A deep groove, large enough for a hand to reach in, lined the side of a large stone tile.

Sherlock slid his fingers into the groove, but John interrupted before he pulled up. "If there's someone down there, our flashlight beam might alert them to our presence," John reasoned.

"Good thinking," Sherlock said, his other hand already turning the flashlight off. Smoothly, the stone panel swung open.

A cold draft blew up from the square opening in the floor. It had a moldy, decaying scent.

"Looks like some kind of crypt," John whispered.

"Of course it's a crypt," Sherlock answered. "It contains the tombs of Sir Christopher Wren, Admiral Lord Nelson, and the Duke of Wellington."

"Are we going down? The assassin might already be there," John asked.

But his companion shook his head. "This'll be the best place to wait for him. If we go down, we might trigger something unexpected."

John peered down the shaft, wondering what was down there. Sherlock, meanwhile, was sniffing the musty air like the hound of Baskerville. "I perceive the faint smell of gunpowder. He's already down there, just biding his time for tomorrow morning."

Sherlock shut the trapdoor quietly then crawled out from beneath the altar. They ran silently to the organ room and crawled back through the passageway. They climbed out of the hidden door and sealed it again. Then, they hailed a taxi and rode it to 221B Baker Street.

It was a sleepless night for both. Normally, when they were on a case, they rarely slept. This case was no different.

The duo got an early start the next day. They both dressed nicely and secreted their illegal firearms into their belts. Then, they caught a cab to the cathedral. Already, the first churchgoers had arrived, sitting in the precisely-aligned pews. Sherlock hurried over to an old man with a cap on his head who was kneeling in a side chapel.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man called happily, standing up from his meditation and moving to grasp the inspector's hand. "I'm so glad you're here. Who's your friend?"

"I'm John Watson," the doctor said. A few courteous pleasantries were exchanged before Sherlock cut to the chase.

"The assassin intends to shoot you from beneath the altar. In what point in the mass will you be closest to it?"

"I'll be at the altar for the farewell. That should be at about 9:30," the archbishop said.

Sherlock nodded. "We plan to wait for him inside the altar."

"You mean he is in the crypt?" the archbishop asked.

"Yes," John said, "there's a secret trap door that leads down to it."

"God bless you, Holmes and Watson," the grateful man said. "You have permission to do whatever you need to do. You have my eternal gratitude."

Once he had finished talking, the two friends walked out of the side chapel. They hurried to the main chapel and surreptitiously disappeared inside the altar.

They remained hidden in the altar as the cathedral filled up for the 8:30 mass. Soon, a minor priest began the mass. Sherlock peered through a small hole in the white curtains to watch the speaker.

"Remember, the assassin will only come up when his informant in the crowd tells him that the archbishop is near the altar," Sherlock whispered. "The moment that trapdoor moves, we need to disable him."

John nodded and swallowed. This was tense. At any moment, the assassin could emerge from the trapdoor. The mass proceeded almost unbearably slowly. The archbishop remained in the chair opposite, this time sporting a tall hat and holding a curved staff.

John fiddled absently with the white fringe, watching the trapdoor for any signs of movement. Sherlock stared out the small hole.

"He's standing," Sherlock cautioned, moving to a spot behind the opening trapdoor. John did the same, taking his gun from his belt.

They knelt behind the trapdoor, eyeing it for any hint of movement. Moments went by without change, setting John into doubt.

"He must be somewhere else, Sherlock. Listen, he's not coming."

" _You_ listen!" Sherlock snapped back. As always, Sherlock was right. John quieted down and could hear the ringing of hard shoes through the floor.

Sherlock fingered his handgun and took it from his belt just as the tile they had been carefully watching quivered. It was pushed up in a wide arc by a gloved hand. Once the trapdoor was fully opened, two hands pushed a semi-automatic firearm into the open space. Then, the gloved hands moved to the side of the trapdoor.

As soon as the man's head loomed into view from the gloom, a hard punch from Sherlock sent the man toppling forward. The assassin toppled over his gun, shaking his head dumbly in confusion. Sherlock hit him again, and he fell unconscious.

On the other side of the altar, the archbishop continued with his sermon, unaware completely of the violent goings-on just a few feet away.

"Mass is ended. Go in peace," the archbishop said, sounding thoroughly relieved.

When most of the churchgoers had left, Sherlock and John carried the terrorist's body out from under the altar. People gaped at them as they walked down the center of the nave and out the main door.

A few police cars were parked outside. Inspector Lestrade stood outside one of them. The freelance investigators dropped the heavy assassin at his feet.

"You might want to question him when you get to the prison; he just tried to murder the archbishop." Sherlock said. "All the evidence you need is inside the altar. If you have any questions, just ask Archbishop Bainfield. He's in Saint Dunstan's Chapel, sitting on the left front aisle. Tell him it was my pleasure."

Lestrade looked at him, dumbfounded. John smirked to himself. It was good being on Sherlock's side of an issue. The look on Lestrade's face was priceless.

Soon, they hailed a cab and were driving back to their flat. As usual, Sherlock paid extra attention to the countenance of the cabbie.

"You might consider joining the police, Sherlock," John said. "Lestrade didn't seem like he could ever come to match your level of intelligence."

"Well, his opinion of me is none of my concern," Sherlock responded. "And he is quite dull," he added with a smile, "But I prefer by far working freelance."

"Ugh," John moaned, rubbing his cramped knees. Absently, the John looked out the window.

"Sherlock!" he cried, ducking down and cradling his head. Sherlock's attentive eyes were already focused on the source of danger.

A black van rolled along next to them. The windows were shaded but were wide open. The barrel of a gun peeked out of a window, and it was aimed in the back seat.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled to the cabbie, ducking and covering his head. After a moment where the driver had no signs of stopping, Sherlock undid the latch of his door and leapt out. The swinging door smashed against a parked car to their right with a terrifying crunch.

"Don't you move," the cabbie drawled from the front seat. For a moment, John was indecisive, looking at both the broken door and the point of the gun. Then, he hurled himself from the door just as Sherlock had done.

He tumbled into the street, hands over his head. The unmistakable booming of the gun and the smashing of glass sounded and John felt a fast-moving bullet graze his arm. He cried out in pain but completed the roll. Without a moment's hesitation, he began running back along the route they had taken in the taxi.

"Sherlock! Where are you?" John bellowed.

"Here," a weak voice called back.

Far ahead, John saw Sherlock's spindly figure lying on the sidewalk.

"Are you hurt?" John asked with concern.

"No," Sherlock responded, getting up. "Just winded."

John came to a stop next to Sherlock and helped the skinny man stand up.

"It's a one-way street," Sherlock said, "which means that they won't be able to loop around to get us for a few minutes. This heavy traffic will stop them from breaking traffic rules to get at us. Ugh…," he groaned, using John's arm for support.

"You're bleeding," Sherlock stated, removing his hand from John's arm and examining the blood. John tried futilly to bend his arm so he could see the wound, but that effort caused him pain. "Don't worry," Sherlock said, "it's superficial. Use my scarf to bind it."

John tied the grey scarf around his arm, wincing at the pain the small movement caused him.. He was thankful for the gesture; it was very unlike Sherlock to care for the well beings of others.

After regaining their breaths, they hailed another cab and clambered in. Again, Sherlock got a good look at the driver.

"Where're you chaps off to?" the sandy-haired driver asked.

"Saint Paul's Cathedral," Sherlock said as John paid.

"Why don't we go back to the flat?" John asked quietly. "We might lose them."

"We would lead them straight to our residence," the mastermind answered. "The Narejin would be after us constantly if they knew where we live.."

John bent to Sherlock's logic. As always, there was an undeniable truth to his statement.

Within a minute, they were back at the steps of the cathedral. They ran in through the front doors and sprinted down the nave. The sound of their footsteps echoed throughout the hall and the tall pillars glared down at them disapprovingly.

They ran through a side door into a small chapel. The dome and paintings were brightly-lit with natural light. Lestrade and a few policemen stood, talking with Archbishop Bainfield. Sherlock and Lestrade met with a scowl.

"I need a computer," Sherlock demanded, his long coat billowing behind him.

"We can't give that sort of stuff to a random citizen, Sherlock," Lestrade answered bluntly.

"When have you cared about that before, Garrett? You need me," Sherlock said, using his favorite method of persuasion.

Lestrade glowered for a minute but eventually relented. "Fine, Sherlock. And my name isn't Garrett, it's Greg."

"What's happened to you, Garrett? Mid-life crisis eliciting a name change?"

Lestrade sighed, realizing that there was nothing he could do to make Sherlock understand that his name was Greg. He pushed one of the police computers across the pulpit from where he had been using it to record the evidence they had found.

"Fantastic!" Sherlock cried with a cheery note in his voice. "I memorized the license plates of both the van and the taxi." A few cops pulled up a computer and Sherlock began searching for the correct license number.

After a few minutes' search, he found what he was looking for. "The van arrived in London early this morning," he announced. "The license plate says that it's being rented from a vehicle shop in Stratford." Sherlock said, standing up.

Lestrade sat down in the pew awkwardly. "Er, Sherlock? What's the number?"

"8472," the man responded distractedly. "Lestrade, I think that your deputies might be competent enough to track down that cab. John and I are going to Stratford."

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Author's note: Thank you for reading. Let me know what you liked (or didn't like) about this chapter by leaving a review.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Floppy Katana here! This is the last chapter in this story. If you want me to write more Sherlock (or any other fandom on my profile page), then send me a review with a prompt. Thanks for reading!**

They were out in a flash. A minute later, the duo was riding in a taxi heading northeast. They rode for about thirty minutes before the cab rolled to a stop.

They sprang from the car, grateful for the ability to stretch. They craned their necks to look at a large sign hung over a car dealership, reading James' Rentals. A parking lot full of every vehicle imagianable was present next to the building.

The duo walked to the main door. The tinny sound of a bell rang through the shop as they entered. A bored-looking attendant barely acknowledged their approach, shifting slightly in a tall stool behind a table. He glanced up when they came within a few feet of him.

"Good afternoon," he grumbled. "What can I do for you lot?"

"A vehicle from your shop crashed early this morning," Sherlock lied, looking attentively at the man's face for any clues.

The attendant's eyes turned down in what might've been dismay before they came back up again. He's inexperienced, Sherlock thought.

"Yes?" the attendant responded, obviously being very careful with his word choice.

"It was a black van; a Nissan. I need any records you have pertaining to its rental," Sherlock demanded.

"That's confidential. Only the police can get those types of records," the dealership owner responded. Sherlock casually reached into his pocket and pulled out Inspector Lestrade's ID card.

"I'm Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard. Again, I need any records you have pertaining to the rental of that van. Refusal to supply this information is a criminal offense and may land you in prison for withholding evidence.

"Meanwhile, your badly-staffed shop will suffer considerably from financial problems. You will face extensive debt. Your wife will want to take over the shop, but being wheelchair-bound, she'll be hard-pressed. When you finally get out of prison, you will find little life left here for you in Stratford. Thus, I kindly advise you to do what I ask."

The shopkeeper quailed under Sherlock's rage. "How did you know?" the man grovelled.

"Oh, it's simple!" Sherlock explained. "Judging by the dust accumulating on the floor, you can't afford cleaning workers. The procedures must be very expensive, if your shop is suffering so greatly. Will she walk again?" Sherlock said, rapid-fire.

"How d'you know about my wife?" the red-faced shopkeeper grumbled.

"Elementary, dear James!" Sherlock exclaimed. John rubbed his temple embarrassedly at his colleague's wording; he had no clue as to how Sherlock knew about the owner's wife.

"I know your wife has undergone numerous surgeries to correct a walking issue. I smell salt; evidence of crying. The surgeries haven't gone well, have they? Also, this place absolutely reeks of splint castings, which could only be for major leg surgeries. It's blatantly obvious."

The shopkeeper looked up at Sherlock in dumbfoundedness. Once he found his voice, he muttered, "I can't give you that information." Sherlock analyzed the reluctant look on the storekeeper's face and his features lit up with joy.

"You're being bribed!" he cried with a wide smile on his face. "It all makes sense. Someone bribed you to keep your mouth shut as to the identities of the renters of the van!" The man sitting behind the desk swallowed nervously, and Sherlock knew he had struck gold.

"If you'll please move back," Sherlock said. The man stood up and hurried through an open door. The click of a lock came from behind it.

"Poor chap," Sherlock said. Sherlock and John vaulted over the desk and found the computer the shopkeeper had been working on.

John's face fell. "He's locked the computer. Whoever bribed him must've offered him a large sum, indeed."

But Sherlock disregarded him. The detective was playing the keyboard like a trained pianist; his fingers darted across the keyboard in a whirl of movement.

"Got it!" he cried as the screen turned green.

"What was it?" John asked; Sherlock's fingers had moved too fast for him to follow.

"Sunshineunicorns27," Sherlock answered, his eyes fixed on the screen he had pulled up.

"That's amazing!" John said. Sherlock looked up from the screen and his flitting fingers came to a stop.

"You'd be surprised how often people use it," Sherlock responded, getting back to his work. "Hmm, this is strange," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Looks like there's no data regarding this transaction. Of course!" he said. "They would've passed the man some cash and then taken the van, with the promise of more money if he kept his mouth shut."

John nodded his head in understanding. He was starting to grasp what Sherlock was saying.

"John," Sherlock said, "d'you mind grabbing a key for me?"

"Which one?" John asked, turning around to face a long line of keys for the rental cars. They hung on nails mounted in the wall at eye-height.

"Sixteenth from the right," Sherlock answered without looking.

"Got it," John called, moving back to Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at his friend, spotting a red dot on the wall near his friend's head. "Get down!" he yelled.

Without hesitation, John dove down under the desk. He had learned not to question Sherlock's advice. Not a second later, a bullet slammed into the line of keys and ricocheted out. It rolled on the floor toward Sherlock, who grabbed it and examined it.

"A semi-automatic shot this…," Sherlock muttered, turning the projectile in the light. "It's the same type of bullet that the Narejin assassin used." He dropped the bullet and looked over to John. "Follow me and keep down."

Sherlock started forward, army-crawling on the floor towards the back entrance. John crawled behind him. They crawled around a corner and there stood the back door.

Sherlock stood up and slammed into the door after examining the hinges. Fortunately, that was enough for the door to smash out. The door swung outward and a heavy draft came into the building. The duo sprinted out the door into the parking lot. "Pass me the key!" Sherlock bellowed, holding his right hand back.

Like a baton racer, John passed the key into Sherlock's hand while still at a full sprint. Sherlock ran toward the best-looking car in the lot, a crimson red Alfa Romeo with a magnificent shining muffler.

"Nice!" John yelled. Sherlock thrust the key into the keyhole and then leapt in. On the other side, John climbed in.

With a purr of the engine, they sprang from the parking lot into the street. A grin spread across John's face regardless of the fact that he had almost been shot in the head by a trained assassin. Sherlock was enjoying himself, too… perhaps a little too much. He slammed his feet on the accelerator like a robber trying to escape a police car on the freeway.

"Where are we going?" John queried with a note of worry evident in his voice.

"Oh, nowhere, really," Sherlock answered. "Whoever has been organizing those Narejin is very smart. The whole thing with the archbishop… that was just a ruse to get us killed. With us out of the way, the Narejin would be free to kill anyone they want.

"This is great!" he cried cheerfully. "Someone with brains is organizing this! I just can't wait to meet them! John, do me a favor and keep a lookout behind us."

"Anything particular I should be looking for?" John asked, though he had a basic idea.

"Yes. Look for a black van and two white ones." Sherlock responded. "I saw three vans on the shopkeeper's computer that were absent in the parking lot."

"You're a genius," John muttered, turning his head to look for following cars.

Sherlock just scowled. "Of course I am."

John stared out the small window behind them, looking for any sign of pursuit. For a few minutes, there weren't any cars behind them. Suddenly, three vans turned from a small access road onto the larger road the Alfa Romeo was driving on.

"They're here!" John said.

"I see them," Sherlock responded calmly, looking in the rear-view mirror. "Now would be a good time to call the police," he added.

"I wholeheartedly agree," John said, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. "Hello? Police?" John yelled into the phone. "There are three Narejin vans on our tails! We need backup. They're armed and dangerous!"

John waited, a little confused, for their response.

"Dangerous we are," a mysterious voice answered. Chills ran down John's spine; there was something in the man's voice that was frighteningly knowing.

"That's not the police," Sherlock said, taking his eyes off the road for a split second to make eye contact with John.

"How incredibly smart of you, Sherlock Holmes," the misty voice drawled from the smartphone's speaker. "Who's your friend? I can see his little face through the back window."

"Don't take the bait, Sherlock," John said. "The less he knows about us, the better."

The piercing laugh that emanated from the phone speaker caused Sherlock to glance over involuntarily.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked with a note of worry. Trying to lose the vans, he swerved around a small green car. To his disappointment, all three vans were able to navigate around the obstacle. Sherlock's fingers tapped uncharacteristically on the steering wheel with what might've been nervousness.

There was silence on the other side of the phone line. Intimidated by the line of vans, Sherlock made another drastic swerve past a taxi to free up some driving space. He threw his whole weight onto the accelerator.

The Alfa Romeo shot forward like a bullet from a gun, its wheels churning up the loose rocks on the road and sending them shooting into windshield of the black van.

"Ha!" John laughed as a large rock hit the black van's windshield square and spread a spiderweb of cracks through the glass. In the Alfa Romeo, they could hear the whistling of air through the phone.

"We know which van he's in now," John said, brow furrowed.

"Very observant of you," Sherlock responded. John blushed a little; this was high praise coming from the genius. After spending so much time with the mastermind, John was starting to understand Sherlock's thought process.

"He's hung up," Sherlock muttered to John. John realized his phone was no longer transmitting. "Do you still have your handgun?" Sherlock asked.

John grabbed the handle of the handgun that was tucked into his belt. "How's your aim?" Sherlock asked. "I need you to shoot those tires."

A glare accompanied John's response as he readied his gun. "You know perfectly well how good my aim is," he said. "I saved your life by shooting that taxi driver you were grappling with from a hundred feet away through a window."

"I had the situation completely under control," Sherlock said defensively. Anxious to change the subject, he said, "the main van's changing lanes."

"Just what are you trying to insinuate?" John fumed, looking at the black van with the cracked windshield as it moved to the left lane.

"There's no time!" Sherlock yelled, rolling the left hand window down and slamming his foot onto the brakes. "Shoot!" he cried.

The black van came even with them to their left, unprepared for their stopping. Bam!, bam!, went two shots from John's gun in quick succession.

"Got 'em!" John cried. "Step on it!"

The engine chugged and the car sprang forward to clear the van armada. The vans were no match for the Alfa Romeo; soon, they were far behind.

John looked over his shoulder, tucking his handgun back into his belt. The van with the broken windshield had veered right into the path of the other vans. The unscathed vans tried to slow down, but it was futile. They slammed into the black van head on.

Flames engulfed the three vans, which together blocked the whole side of the road. A few figures limped out of the demolition, rolling on the grass by the side of the road to put the fire that clung to their clothes out.

Within a minute, police and firemen had pulled up. The firemen thoroughly doused the three vans with water from their fire hoses, but flames kept leaping back up. Medics took the few people that were not directly incinerated by the flames from the scene on stretchers and loaded them onto ambulances. A cloud of black, noxious smoke billowed into the air from the burning vans.

The police, on the other hand, drove over to the red Alfa Romeo, brandishing guns. "Relax, relax!" Sherlock yelled, holding his hands up lazily. John stood boldly next to Sherlock, though he was much more nervous than his friend.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock said, smiling as he recognized the inspector.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. "What have you done?"

"Easy," Sherlock responded. "We've just caught you a couple Narejin assassins, destroyed a handful of expensive vans, and saved the lives of countless people." Sherlock stood awkwardly for a second, then realized that the inspector was looking at the red car behind him. "Er, we also might've stolen an Alfa Romeo," he added with a slight grimace.

Inspector Lestrade reluctantly put a hand out to signal his police to put their guns away. "Sherlock, when were you planning on letting the police know about this whole operation?" Lestrade grumbled.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You formal police are too caught up in statistics and regulations. You never have any fun."

"Is that what you consider fun?" Lestrade yelled, gesturing to the smoldering pile of metal.

Sherlock nodded happily. John imitated him, daring even to add a little smile.

Inspector Lestrade looked like he was about to explode in anger, but somehow he managed to keep his composure. He turned away, grumbling something about diverting traffic. His police force moved away to direct the bottled-up cars to an alternate route while the wreckage of the cars was removed from the street.

Sherlock and John moved back to the car. Sherlock opened the right door, and John thought Sherlock was going to drive. It was a shame, John thought. He would've liked to drive the Alfa Romeo, if only for once. However, he saw Sherlock beckon for him to take the driver's seat.

"She's all yours," Sherlock said with a deep bow.

John smiled and he slid into the seat. It had been a long time since he had driven a car. It all came back to him as he ran his hands over the smooth steering wheel. The throbbing pain in his scarf-wrapped arm stopped hurting abruptly.

Sherlock climbed into the seat opposite him and they took off down the empty road. A smile flitted on John features when the car hurtled down the road.

Moriarty winced in pain, his back pressed hard against the rough bark of a tree along the main road. His lower right arm was badly burnt from the crash. He held his arm with his left hand as he glanced around the edge of the tree at the road. The remnants of the vans were finally being cleaned up and the last of the police and firefighters had left the scene. He released a breath of pent-up air and got out his cell phone.

Moriarty dialed one of his confidants and had him pick him up by the side of the road. As he leaned against the soft car seat, he promised himself to never involve himself directly in his operations again.

Back in the Alfa Romeo, Sherlock and John pulled up a gas station across the street from James' Rentals, where they filled up the gas tank. John drove the short distance to the parking lot and parked the Alfa Romeo in its respective spot.

They looked reluctantly at the car before walking to the front entrance of the dealership. Three police cars were parked out front, their sirens wailing annoyingly. What remained of the front door was torn wide open. Jagged edges of glass stuck out from the doorframe at strange angles. John and Sherlock carefully stepped over the shattered glass to get inside.

A few local Stratford policemen stood in the main room, crowded around the owner.

"Just tell us what happened!" one of them yelled angrily at the cowering owner.

"Give the poor chap some space!" John yelled.

"Who're you?" the same policeman growled threateningly.

Sherlock fumbled for his stolen ID once more. Showing it to the policemen, he said, "Clear out, you lot." Reluctantly, they backed back out of the shop.

Now, Sherlock and John could see the shopkeeper, who sat hunched against his desk. Tears streamed unstemmed from his face as he weeped uncontrollably.

John moved forward instinctively to comfort the quivering man. "Don't worry," John said, coming to a kneeling position. "We'll cover for you. You did what any decent person would do for their loved ones. It's okay."

Sherlock watched the exchange curiously. He came to the conclusion that John was right; the man had simply done what he thought was best. Then, he turned around and walked over to the group of police who stood outside the door.

"You lot," he said in a commanding voice, "that man you were assaulting in there was a victim of a shooting. He almost died from an unprovoked Narejin attack. My assistant and I have apprehended the shooters. Hurry along back to headquarters, now. I've been in touch with Officer Leonard. I'll make certain to tell him how badly you were handling the situation before I came along."

"Yes sir," the policemen grumbled, subdued. They turned back to their cars and drove away. Sherlock's ears welcomed the respite of silence when the sirens turned off. Sherlock looked back inside the building and saw that John was making some progress with the dealership owner.

Sherlock looked back up at the street, his attentive ears picking up on the sound of a car. It pulled around the corner not a second later. It was a taxi.

He stood near the entrance of the dealership as the occupant of the taxi clambered out. She was about fifty years old, though she didn't look it by the ferocity of her gait. She used two crutches to help her move. Without regarding Sherlock at all, she leapt through the door.

On the inside, James sprang up from the ground. "Emily," he cried tearfully. They collided with an enormous hug.

John smiled, standing up to join Sherlock. They turned to leave, but they stopped in their tracks when they heard a choked voice from inside the room.

"Thank you. With the money the Narejin gave me, I'll be able to rebuild this business. You were too kind to me," James muttered thankfully.

"You're welcome," John said. He turned to leave yet again, but remembered he hadn't given the key to the Alfa Romeo back. He pulled the key from his pocket and slipped it into James' hand. "Good luck," he whispered to the couple. He patted them both on the shoulder.

As they walked over to the taxi Sherlock had commissioned, Sherlock gave voice to an emotion he had never felt before.

"You know how you always say that I'm amazing?" Sherlock asked, admiration evident in his voice. John looked down at his shuffling feet.

"Well, what you did in there was more amazing than anything I've ever done," Sherlock said. John smiled slightly as they slid into the taxi. Sherlock examined the driver, as always.

"One more thing," Sherlock added quietly. "If you're wondering why I always look at the cabbie, it's because the last time I failed to do that, I almost broke a rib chasing after the wrong man."

John laughed faintly. After all, he had chased after that rogue cabbie, too.


End file.
